


My Fall

by TeamGwenee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Capital Punishment, Corporal Punishment, F/M, Historical AU, Time Appropriate Misogyny, Witches and Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-08-19 22:18:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16543355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamGwenee/pseuds/TeamGwenee
Summary: After her father's death, Brienne is sent to live with the Starks of Winterfell Farm, near the tiny Torrhen Village and put to work to earn her keep. There she is confronted with dangerous superstition and her own burgeoning desires.





	1. The Witch Burns

 

It was the younger Stark daughter who told me the tale of Goodwife Baratheon’s trial, on my first night at Winterfell Farm. It was a story of a story. The childish retellings of the tale told to her by siblings lucky enough to go. A warbled account painted and embroidered with glee, but in basics I found the truth and later testimonies left me with a clear and plain picture.

"Mother wouldn't let me come," Arya Stark complained. "I had to stay behind to look after the baby." She bit her lip and stared furiously at the cracked floorboards. “For all the good it did him.”

Bran Stark, the second youngest child, had been bidden to come by his father but it was agreed that Arya had no place in such proceedings. Knowing the outspoken little girl with her quick temper and sharp tongue as I did, I could not blame them. The child had such a keen sense of justice that at the first twisted truth she would have been on her feet, standing on her chair to be seen and shouting to be heard.

I can’t blame her. I would have done the same. Even if, as with young Arya, it was my own father who took to the stand.

“Sansa said she looked very beautiful,” Arya told me with a roll of her eyes, “As she would. But very bedraggled. They say she had been tortured the week before. Little food. No sleep. The tied her to the back of a cart and made her walk barefoot through the streets in nought but her shift, and everyone threw fruit and vegetables at her. Lommy said he and his friends’ Mas emptied their chamber pot onto Goody Baratheon’s head as she walked beneath.”

The story of Cersei Baratheon’s journey to the courthouse is one I have heard most of all, so much that at times I feel as though I watched it myself. I picture it as though I was a bird, watching these strange goings on from the sky. I watched her, her shorn head and yellow skin, her bloodied feet as she was dragged along, rope burning her wrists. Yet still so proud, so very much like her brother.

“Robert Baratheon did most of the talking.” Arya went on, repeating Sansa’s words. “He showed everyone the doll she had made of him. It had a lock of black hair on its head and a pin through its leg. He told everyone that she had cursed him and that’s why his leg had been troubling so.” Arya snorted. “As opposed to his legs simply tiring from carrying his great, big bulk.”

“You think she was innocent?” I asked.

“I didn’t say that,” Arya said quickly, lowering her voice, “And I can’t blame her. I’d do anything if I was married to that brute.”

“Arya!” I hissed, horrified by the blasphemous child’s words and my own swift agreement.

I looked over both shoulders to see if we had been heard. We were locked away in the sisters’ bedchamber, where I slept on the floor. Goody Stark was waiting anxiously in the yard, looking out for the return of her husband and remaing sons from the woods. Sansa was toiling in the kitchen, seeing to the evening meal. No one could have heard us, but in that tiny village not even Winterfell Farm felt safe from spies.

“The trial went on. She was accused of gross wantonness and vanity, always parading about in those fine silk dresses that has no place in our little village. Sansa used to envy her so much for them, she used to tidy for them because she hoped that she would get one of her cast offs.” Arya tugged at her own frock, a drab brown thing handed down by her sister. It was frayed and patched from the many scraps Arya always got herself into.

Sansa’s own clothes were equally plain, but she kept them neat and would wear flowers in her hair and save up for ribbons. Privately, I sympathised with the elder Stark girl in her desire for finer things. I never thought of myself in finery, but my clothes were even worse than the Starks’. At least theirs was clean and well kept. On my arrival at the Stark homestead Goody Stark took one look at my things and declared them unfit for a beggar.

 When it became clear I wasn’t going to stop growing, father didn’t bother buying me new cloth for dresses and I just went about in his shirt and trousers. There was no reason not to, after all no one else was there to see me. As such, those first few weeks on Winterfell Farm I was stuck alternating between two shabby frocks that pinched and itched and left me feeling uglier than usual.

Those frocks marked me out as an outcast just as much as Cersei Baratheon’s fine gowns did.

But looking back, all three of us; myself and the Stark girls. secretly longed for the same thing. Even Arya. For something greater than a life stuck by the hearth and stove.

I suspect Cersei Baratheon wanted the same.  

“And then Father was called to the stand. He was asked to confirm he heard Goody Baratheon ill wishing her husband.” Arya tucked her head on top of her skinny knees and picked at a scab on her chin, shifting and scowling on the splintered floorboards.

“And did he?” I asked gently.

“Of course, he did!” Arya said harshly. “We all heard her.”

This wasn’t a lie. One walk through the market; where the gossip was still fresh and ripe, confirmed that to me. And so, Ned Stark took to the stand and did his civil duty by speaking the truth and nothing else, trusting justice would prevail.

Whether it did or not remains to be seen, but Cersei Baratheon was condemned, branded and burned.

“He only told the truth,” Arya insisted. “It’s not like he was the one who accused her of witchcraft. It was Mister Baratheon who did that, no one else. And he certainly believed it was true. I snuck into the kitchen one night and I saw him crying in Papa’s arms like a baby, saying his wife was out to kill him.”

“She sounds like an unpleasant lady,” I said tentatively.

Arya shrugged mulishly. “She was. I didn’t like Goody Baratheon,” she admitted. “No one did. She was vile to everyone. All Lannisters are arrogant but she was just cruel. She had her brother shoot our first sheepdog because it went onto their lands and stole a rabbit.” Arya’s lips curled in disgust.

I suspect that if it had been the murder of poor Lady that Goody Baratheon had been condemned for, Arya would have been the one lighting her pyre. As it was, it was for the attempted murder of her husband and Arya disapproved greatly.

“So, Robert Baratheon truly believed his wife was a witch?” I asked.

“He did, enough to stand up in court and swear it on his immortal soul.” Arya smirked. “But not enough to face her brother. He waited until Jaime Lannister was safely in King’s Landing before breathing a word, and then fled at the first chance.”

We then looked silently up at Casterly Hill, upon which stood the Lannisters’ cavernous homestead. Only one of the many windows were lit, the front parlour which allowed Jaime Lannister to sit and look down on Winterfell Farm.

“He’s got no family here,” Arya whispered, “I don’t understand why he doesn’t just leave.”

Neither did I. Not then.


	2. Into The Depths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone who has left comments and kudos!

I will take this moment to speak more about myself.

My name is Brienne Tarth. My father, gods rest his soul, raised me alone. We lived in a tiny hut by the sea, on the outskirts of a dense forest. Together we sold lumber from the forest and ate fish from the sea and we told ourselves that we were content.

 I saw little of anyone else, very rarely joining my father on his weekly trips to the other end of the forest. I loathed going to Torrhen Village, where the world would stop and stare. When I was little, I adored joining my father on his trips, riding beside him on his cart. But then I grew and grew, and my father’s reputation grew and grew also, and it was only complete necessity that forced us to that wretched place.

Then he died. An accident on one of the few trips into the village. He stopped by at the inn and indulged himself in his favourite vice and was blind drunk by the time he set his horse for home.

He didn’t make it to the forest.

They bore my father’s body back to me on the back of a cart. For the first time they looked at me with something akin to tenderness in their eyes. But I was too busy watching my world fall apart to care what these little, little people thought of me.

As these things usually are, it was agreed without my say that I should be sent to Winterfell Farm. A young maid, even one of nine and ten, could not live alone. The Starks’ youngest child had just died from fever and the mother was struggling to cope. A spare pair of hands was exactly what they needed.

I was given a night to collect my things, my few paltry possessions, and I was loaded into a wagon and deposited with their weekly fish order.

Goody Stark and her daughters greeted me at the door.

“Brienne dear,” Goody Stark said warmly, “Come inside and have something to eat. Arya take Brienne’s things up to your room. Sansa, fetch her something to drink.”

Goody Stark spoke most kindly to me as she listed off my duties, but her smile and eyes were blank and empty. I could tell that those polite words slipped out without thought, and she was not truly there. Instead she was stood beside her son’s empty cradle, wondering how her thriving babe could be lost so easily.

 Even so I saw a glimmer of satisfaction as she took in my height and breadth. I could assist with the cooking and cleaning, but also the chores that were usually left for Ned and Robb Stark to do once they returned from the fields. I hewed down trees and chopped logs for firewood, I repaired the house and fetched water from the creek on the border of their lands.

On my second morning, before the sun was more than a sweet hope in the sky, I was up before anyone else and dressing as silently as possible. The Stark girls slumbered on either side of me in their tiny beds, Mister and Goody Stark above us and Robb and Bran on the other side of the wall. I banged my head several times on the ceiling, because I had still not learnt to keep myself hunched forward, and then made my way down the creaking stairs and out the house.

I was used to such early mornings, and the days spent in the cramped cottage had me relishing the solitude. I had never spent so much time surrounded by so many people, nor so much time so far from the sea. With not a soul around, I took off my boots and stockings and; once I had given thought to how Goody Stark would react to my returning to the cottage in stinking wet clothes, I stripped myself to my small clothes and waded in.

The water was cold, but I was used to colder. The prickling of my skin awoke me from the dead slumber my spirit had sunk into on the death of my father. I know not how long I had been swimming for, but when I emerged the sun was in the sky.

And a man was watching.

I caught my first glimpse of Jaime Lannister when the morning light was streaking through the trees and framing his sharp jaw and golden hair. His eyes were ringed in black and his face unshaven. The grief of the loss of his sister had aged him more than his years, but even that could not make him less handsome. I squinted up at him through red eyes, barely able to comprehend the splendour and horror of his presence before he reached out and grabbed me by the hair, hauling me from the creek.

I scrambled onto the bank and slipped barefooted on the mud, yanking my head away from his grip and losing a chunk of my hair as I did.

“I wasn’t drowning,” I spluttered, hastily gathering my clothes.

“I didn’t think you were.” Jaime Lannister shrugged. “But this is my creek, and I don’t recall inviting you to swim in it.”

I puzzled over this. I wondered if I had gone down the wrong path, but I had only followed Ned Stark’s directions and made sure not to stray from the path, for in the very depth of the woods there was rumoured to be wolves.

“This is the Starks’ creek. I was sent to get water for them,” I said indignantly.

“Then get your water,” he snarled, “And leave before I lose my patience. Although I suggest you get dressed first.”

We stood, staring silently at each other, daring the other to move first.

“I will dress when you turn your back, and then I can leave you be.” I snapped at last.

The wretched man smirked and turned his back, affording me the minimum privacy to dress. Despite the numbness in my feet and hands, my cheeks burned. I was clad in nothing my drenched smallclothes, stood only inches away from the most handsome man, _being,_ I had ever seen in my life.

Tugging my skimpy frock over my wet head, I found to my dismay that I had misplaced my stockings.

“Looking for something?” Jaime Lannister asked without turning, swinging my muddied stockings by his fingers.

I swallowed at the thought of his hands cradling the cloth that had been so close to my skin, and reached out to snatch it from his hands, desperate to dress and escape his presence. If anyone had seen us by chance, the consequences would have ben devastating.

“You are the Starks new maid?” he drawled, letting the stockings fall into my hand.

“The Starks have taken me in,” I said stiffly, tugging my stockings over my still damp legs with difficulty.

“And are using you as a maid,” Jaime Lannister concluded. His voice gentled. “My condolences on your father’s death.”

I stalled, surprised at his change in topics.

“Thank you,” I said, before swiftly beginning to walk away.

“I won’t tell anyone!” he called after me. “No one will know I found you swimming in your small clothes.” His voice was taunting, and yet genuine.

I nodded and allowed myself a small smile. “I am grateful, I daresay the Starks would not be pleased to find out I have been swimming when there are chores to do.”

“Well in that case.” He beamed jovially, “Swim in my creek as much as you want.”

And with that, he jammed his hands in his pockets and strode off, leaving me speechless.

“It’s not your creek,” I said helplessly.


	3. A Warning

Catelyn Stark did not let my late arrival go unnoticed. Despite having run back as fast the heavy bucket of water allowed, I was still back far later than intended. Thankfully, Goody Stark only smiled at me as I entered the dusty courtyard and nodded understandingly. If my clothes looked even more bedraggled than usual, she did not say anything. Ned Stark stood beside her, preparing to set off to the fields for a day of work.

“Got lost?” Goody Stark asked lightly, stepping forward and taking the bucket of water from me.

I was tempted to nod and move on, but I was unwilling to lie to those who had taken me in.

“I must have,” I mumbled. “I mean, I did find the creek, but Jaime Lannister told me I was on his land and the creek was his.”

Ned Stark’s face grew hard and Catelyn Stark scowled.

“So, he wants to play that game, does he?” Mister Stark muttered. “Our land meets at the creek, and it belongs to both of us.”

“Loathe as we are to share borders with such a man.” Goody Stark added. The two shared a dark look, faces full of loathing unlike I had ever seen before.

“I must be off,” Mister Stark said, pecking his wife chastely on the cheek. “I will see you tonight Cat. Brienne, stay away from Jaime Lannister.”

I watched in silence as Mister Stark set off, hoping that I would have to change clothes before starting my chores, as the drying cloth was beginning to chafe. Instead, I set about chopping logs for firewood. Bran and Arya scampered over to watch, carrying baskets of eggs from the chicken coop.

“You’re so strong,” Arya; skinny as a twig, sighed longingly.

Bran flexed his own arms and looked at them miserably. “Father promises that if I work hard on the farm I will grow to be as big and strong as him. But it’s taking a long time.”

I smiled limply, bringing down the axe with a great swing and splitting the log right down the middle with one strike, maybe showing off just a little.

“Away with you two!” Goody Stark ordered, striding forward with a dead chicken hanging from her hand. “Arya help your sister tidy the rooms. Bran go see to the goat. She needs feeding.”

Bran ran off willingly as Arya trudged miserably inside, casting envious looks at her lucky little brother.

Goody Stark lingered to watch me. I put down the axe and waited expectantly.

“Brienne?” she asked. “What did Jaime Lannister speak to you about?”

I thanked the Gods that the exertion of chopping wood had already painted my blushing cheeks red. “Only that the creek belonged to him,” I repeated.

“That is all?” Goody Stark pushed.

“And he wished me condolences on my father’s death,” I added, hoping that would be enough to set the matter to rest.

“Indeed?” Goody Stark raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Very civil of him.”

I wiped beads of sweat from my forehead, squinting at Goody Stark curiously. “You sound surprised. Is civility a rare occurrence for him?”

Goody Stark scoffed. “He is one of the vilest men I have ever had the misfortune to meet!” she spat, sitting down to begin plucking the poor chicken of its feathers. “Did you know what he did to Ned on his return from town?”

“After his sister’s death?” I asked.

Goody Stark nodded. “That wretched man accosted him in the streets, in full view of everyone, and near beat him to a pulp. Ned was minding his own, collecting some of Robert Baratheon’s things from his house. Lannister stood outside the door and screamed for him to come down and face him. Drunk I daresay. Mister Glover told me they were all too frightened to approach him, he looked half possessed.

“Ned finally came down and before he even giving him a chance to speak, Lannister threw himself at him. It took five men to pull him off and by the time they did, Ned’s ribs were cracked, his left hand and nose were broken, and he drove a _knife_ through Ned’s leg.

“Ned could barely walk home, he had to be carried back. He was half dead by the time they brought him to me and had to spend a month in bed. Poor Robb had to practically tend to the farm himself.” She sat back with eyes shut, shuddering in the faint morning sun. “I thought they had brought a corpse back to me when I first saw him, being down our lane.” She dabbed at he eyes with the hem of her dress. “And I was so busy tending to him, I did not notice Rickon, my baby, my boy, was sickening.”

I stilled awkwardly. This was the first time the youngest Stark’s death was spoken of in my presence.

“One month after Ned was attacked,” Catelyn sighed, “My son grew fevered. In the morning he was hale and hearty, laughing at Arya pulling faces for him. That night he was dead.”

I rested my rough hand on her shoulder. It was a clumsy attempt of comfort, but Catelyn Stark smiled anyway.

“I did not mean to burden you with such an outpouring,” Catelyn apologised. “But you need to understand. Jaime Lannister is not a good man. He is cruel and vicious, just like his sister. And he hates this family. Oh, he can be charming, and he is a handsome wretch there is no denying. Handsome enough to turn the head of the steadiest girl. You need to be warned. He’s _dangerous_ , Brienne.”

That I could well believe.

“I understand Goody Stark,” I said obediently, returning to my chores. Goody Stark reached out and placed her hand on mine, staring up at me imploringly. She did not look merely concerned or stern, as one would expect of a guardian ordering her charge to stay away from a man of loose morals. She looked frightened.

“I mean it Brienne,” she said sternly, “Stay away from Jaime Lannister.”


	4. The Decline Begins

Plain good sense dictated to me to do as Mister and Goodwife Stark bid and avoid the ‘Lannister Wretch’ at all times. And yet every morning as I strolled into those woods, it felt as though each step lead me away from reason and into madness.

It was purely the swimming that brought me there, at first.

I had grown by the sea and the salt water was as much a part of me as my hair and skin. Seven knew my father to be a brusque, unsentimental man. But in those days when he first taught me to swim, towing be about in the waves and clapping me on as is successfully thrashed my legs to keep afloat, his pride and love for me was unquestionable. If on land he was stern and even surly with me when the devil’s drink had got to him, then our time in the sea proved his affection for me beyond doubt.

A quick swim in the morning raised my spirits for the whole day. Too long without one, and even as I toiled an inertia of the mind would creep over me like mould.

But even if I did continue to swim, I should not have spoken to him. I should not have broken my promise to the Starks and met with that man. I could have changed my spot or made sure to leave the minute I spied him.

Propriety aside, I had given my word. And on my first time on seeing him again, I mean to keep it. I saw him on the bank and swiftly went about dressing behind the bushes, refusing to acknowledge him.

“Ah!” he cried at my retreating back, “So the honourable Starks have warned you away from the evil Lannister, have they?”

I turned back, expecting to see disdain and mirth on his face. But what I truly saw was a lonely man, grieving the loss of his sister and soon to return to an empty house on the hill. I had a second to choose. I could have resumed walking away and returned to Winterfell Farm and respectability and sanity. Or I could give into the yearning in his eyes and remain long enough to give that sad, angry man a few kind words.

I stayed.

And so, I took Jaime Lannister up on his offer and swam, lingering at the creek when I should have about my business and fled as soon as possible, lest I risk being discovered once more. And many a time he came across me, far too often to be coincidental. And despite Goody Stark’s previous judgment, beneath his flippant and insulting manner was a good deed of civility. I felt more at ease than I had any right to be, especially clad in nothing but soaked through body linen.

I thought of his constant presence somewhat a nuisance, for how it pleased me was most inconvenient.

“You are half a fish,” he told me two weeks after our first meeting, gallantly helping me emerge from the water and passing me a towel he had thoughtfully brought for me.

“I sometimes feel it,” I admitted as I dried myself off from behind a tree. “I am not myself if I have not been in the water.”

“You remind me of a selkie,” he called to me.

“A what?”

“Selkie,” he repeated. “Women who take the form of seal. Men would steal their skins from them and take them as their wife, for the selkie is the most beautiful of all women.”

It was during that conversation I developed the ability to actually hear his smirk, a skill I still possess to this day.

 “That is where the comparison ends,” he said.

I emerged from behind the tree, disgruntled and with a frown that melted the moment I saw the plate of food he held out to me.

“I guessed you haven’t had breakfast yet.” He smiled and gestured for me to sit beside him. “And I doubt those Starks feed you enough. And I bet they work you hard too.”

I scowled at him, even as I accepted his bounty.

“They feed me well enough and ask nothing more than what I owe to them. The whole family works hard and is careful with food.”

“But I bet you are the first to rise and last to slumber,” Jaime persisted. “And I bet the food they give you is the blandest of the bland. Have you ever tasted finer than what I am giving you now?”

The food he presented me with was certainly finer and more divine than I had known. Outside of the fresh fish shared between myself and father, the sausages and white bread with butter and all the other luxuries Jaime served me was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted. Unlike the Starks, he certainly did not mind shelling out a few extra silver stags in exchange for quality.

I looked down at the feast before me with guilt, for I had tucked in and left him very little. He saw my face and laughed.

“Help yourself,” he waved his hand carelessly, “enjoy it. I have more than enough. It’s not like I have anyone else to spend it one.”

This was not the first time I had heard of the supposed Lannister wealth, but it was the first time I caught a sight of it for myself. Jaime always appeared more as a beggar in his patched clothes than as a gentleman. And yet according to Sansa his clothes had once rivalled that of his sister’s. I looked at him with fresh eyes and wondered if the rags he went about in were a penance for not being back in time to save her.

“I never said sorry, for your sister’s death,” I mumbled after choking down a mouthful of food.

“Well no one else did either so don’t beat yourself up over it,” he said harshly, tugging at the grass and ripping it from the mud.

“I’m saying it now,” I said, unsure and nervous at treading on such dangerous ground.

He looked up at me, burning green eyes filled with raw grief and anger and his jaw tense and tight.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “Thank you for that. The rest of the world seems to believe I should be grateful to be rid of my witch for a sister, and that I should thank them for destroying her and join them in spitting on her grave. So truly, thank you.”

“Arya told me that you have no family here, but you have a brother in town. Why do you not join him?” I asked, half hoping for his sake that he would leave that lonely house on the hill and join his loved ones, and half breaking at the thought of it.

“I can’t,” he said simply. “Not yet. I must linger here a little longer.” “Aren’t you lonely?” I had never seen him with a friend before, no one visited him, and he had his food delivered whenever he could. The whole town was hostile to him, suspicious and full of loathing for the last of the handsome, arrogant Lannisters.

He smiled at me, the harsh, straight lines of his face softening.

“Less so since you arrived,” he said, and then he kissed my hand. And then my wrist and my shoulder and jaw. And then my lips.

“No,” I whispered, softer than an autumn leaf but he heard it all the same and stopped.

“I must get back,” I explained, “I am already late. What if they came looking for me and we are seen?”

Jaime nodded and began gathering his things, helping me to my feet as though I were a fine lady. He ran his fingers through my hair, easing out the damp tangles

“Is that your only objection?” he murmured, resting his hand on my cheek.

Was it? No. It wasn’t. I objected to lying to my good and pious benefactors. I objected throwing away the teachings of my religion, for as uneducated I was on the subject, one lesson I never missed out on was chastity. I objected to the risk of pregnancy and eternal shame.

“No,” I said truthfully. “That was not my only objection.” And then something wild and wicked in me took hold. The part of me that had been lurking within since my first blood, the part that screamed with envy as the Stark men set off each day and I was confined to the yard. It was the part of me that had me swimming and dreaming and constantly longing for more.

“That is not my only objection,” I repeated, “But it is the only one stopping me.”

Jaime smiled, and caressed my cheek with his hand.

“Tonight?” he promised, “At midnight?”

I nodded yes, and my descent into madness was complete.


	5. Impact

In silent penance, I worked like a woman possessed when I reached the farm. If I was to wrong the Starks so after they had taken me in, the least I could do was work until my fingers bled. I smiled at the children and nodded at Sansa’s gossip and followed every one of Goody Stark’s orders to the letter, as quickly and thoroughly as humanely possible.

By right I should have been worn out by the time we all retired to bed, but by then the flames of the devil were lit within me and I could scarce lie still enough to feint sleep. I lay on my thin straw pallet, watching the moon crawl like a tortoise along the sky. Not once during my vigil did I sleep, and nor was I tempted to. My large, awkward body seemed to tremble as I stood and donned my cloak and shoes. The house creaked and screamed with every move I made, the floorboards shrieking out from beneath my heavy feet. But when I finally emerged from the house and stood beneath the sky, I did so truly believing that I was alone.

I began wandering down that well-worn path, the moon and stars having banished the clouds for my sake and kindly lighting my way. Those final steps proved too much, and I could not walk as my legs took control and I had to run to our spot by the creek.

He was there. Waiting for me. He was surrounded by candles that he had lit himself, especially for me. he must have been waiting a while to have had time to do so, and when I first saw him his nose was buried in a book. A delicious smell wafted over to me, a small animal was being roasted over a spit.

“Jaime?” I breathed.

He smiled at me silently, standing up to take my hand. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” he admitted, unsure and uncertain for the first time I ever met him. I looked down at the book with curiosity, with its fine black leather bindings and inscrutable gold lettering.

“You can read?” I asked, impressed even though it should have been obvious for such a man to have been educated.

“You can’t?” he replied, settling me down beside him so that was closest to the fire. “What about writing, can’t you do that either? Not even your name?”

“No,” I said. “But I would like to. Would you teach me?”

“I didn’t ask you here to give you a writing lesson,” he said in mock disgruntlement. “But I suppose I can oblige you.”

“Now?” I pushed.

He tipped his head back and groaned. “Let us eat first. Your man has brilliantly caught us a hare to eat, and I daresay it is almost done.”

We feasted on that fresh, tender meat. Hot juices trickling down my chin and onto wrist, so that Jaime leaned forward to lick it, nuzzling my hand. For the first time in years I giggled, as bashful as a pretty little maid.

“Wait!” I protested, “You promised you would teach me to write my name first.”

Jaime growled but nodded, sitting back like a lion on its haunches. He took my hand and had me slowly trace the fingers in the mud, softly murmuring criticisms and encouragement into my hair, explaining each letter.

“Good,” he said at last, every inch the dutiful tutor. He picked up his discarded black leather book and produced a pencil from inside his jacket, pushing it into my hands.

“Now write your name in my book,” he ordered.

I could do it myself, but he kept his hand on mine, there to guide me should I falter.

“I’m not content with just my name,” I told him as I sketched out the ‘B’. “I wish to read and write properly.”

“Why?” he asked, light mockery in his voice. “What use could the Starks’ maid ever have for reading and writing?”

“I won’t be the Starks’ maid forever,” I promised. “I can’t be.”

He tucked away a stray lock of hair. “You really do remind me of a Selkie,” he mused, his hot breath trickling down my back “They were like you, desperate to escape. Desperate to be free. To plunge into the sea and never stop swimming. Where do you wish to escape to, Brienne Tarth?”

“Everywhere,” I whispered reverently. His mouth on my neck, I wrote my name in his black book, and gave way to sin.

#

As you can probably predict, I had in fact not left the house unnoticed. I returned to the farm, flushed and flustered, to find the family up and waiting for me. All were dressed in their bedclothes, except for Bran who stood trembling before me in his coat and boots.

I looked at him, I saw his wide eyes and his clothes and realised the light-footed scamp had heard me leave and followed me into the woods.

“Brienne,” Catelyn Stark whispered in horror, “Bran said he saw you with Jaime Lannister. What have you done?”

I swallowed and ducked my head, staring remorsefully at the ground. I could not bear to look her in the face, not after she had been so good as to take me in, only for me to disgrace her so.

“It is as it seems,” I admitted, “I have been with Jaime Lannister.”

Ned and Catelyn Stark looked at each other, distress and shock evident on their faces. They grew stern and stoic before my eyes and wordlessly they decided upon my reckoning. They looked so stricken, so disgusted that guilt curdled in the pit of my stomach.

“I am so sorry,” I said earnestly. “I beg you to forgive me.”

“It is not our forgiveness you should be begging for,” Mister Stark said quietly.

“To bed,” Goodwife Stark ordered her children. “All of you. _Now_.”

“Wait.” Mister Stark raised his hand. “Sansa, stay. I would have you watch this.”

“Ned,” Goody Star said in protest as Robb dragged a squirming Arya and weeping Bran up the stairs by the wrists, “Sansa is a good girl. Surely-“

“I thought Brienne was a good and dutiful maid also. I would not have believed such as act from her any more than I would have from Sansa.” Mister Stark strode along the room and plucked cane from beside the fireplace. “She is of an age where we clearly cannot be too careful.” He turned back round the face me. “Sansa,” he ordered, “See that you pay close attention.”

With Goody Stark’s assistance I knelt in the centre of the room. She lifted my skirt and pushed me forward, stoic and solemn, as though this whole ordeal was some sort of church ritual.

“Have courage and accept your punishment,” she told me sternly. Her hand lingered on my back, gentle and firm.

“Brienne, do you understand why you must be punished?” Mister Stark asked, taking his place behind me.

“Yes,” I choked after a struggle. My mouth had turned dry and the words could not seem to come out.

“My wife and I, when we took you in, took charge not only of your physical safety, but your moral welfare. Above all else we are to guard your soul and guide you down the path of righteousness.” Mister Stark explained, refusing to be merciful and get my humiliation over with quickly. “We do this for your sake alone, for it brings us no pleasure. If you wish to depart this life with a clean soul, you must be punished for your sins. You must _atone_. Whatever pain it may cause you on this fleeting earth, and whatever carnal delights you must spurn, they are nothing compared to the sufferings of hell should you continue down this path. And so, I must do this, in the hope that you may be spared and welcomed into paradise. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I whispered once more, longing for it all to be over and to pull my skirt back down. I bit my lip, to keep myself from crying out, and listened for the whistle of the cane as it came flying down.


	6. Fall-out

I couldn’t meet with Jaime the morning after that. Even if Goody Stark had not ordered that I remain near the house at all times, I physically could not. My beating left me in bed all the next morning, barely able to stand. And even after I recovered well enough to go about my duties, I did so with a limp and a pained grimace. 

Once I got out of bed, I spied Bran watching me as I stiffly carried out the laundry. He sidled up to me and placed his small hand in mine.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean for you to get beaten.”

I smiled gently down at him. “I know,” I assured him, ruffling his unruly red hair. “Do not blame yourself. Run along and play now.” 

He gave me his sweet and innocent smile, but it melted away as his father entered the courtyard and stormed towards us. He darted away, leaving me to face the face his father’s cool grey eyes.

“I have spoken to Jaime Lannister,” he informed me coldly. “He knows that he is to stay away from you and not to expect to see you again. I told him you accepted your punishment and admitted your sins.”

“What did he say?” I asked without thinking, wondering if Jaime said anything on my behalf.

“Nothing,” Mister Stark said pointedly. “He said nothing.”

I was left to my chores, Ned Stark’s ‘nothing’ echoing inside my head. So much so that when a bashful Sansa came up to me and asked what Jaime meant to me, the only word in my mouth was “nothing”.  
 

I took it as a lesson that I should have learned long ago. Jaime Lannister did not care for me, he used me as any such a man would. This was the final nail that had me resolved to put this madness behind me. I had acted out in the grief of my father and would never do so again. I spied Mister and Goodwife Stark conferring urgently in the doorway and resolved to go to them and tell them so. To thank them, for correcting me and assure them I have learnt my lesson. They did not see nor hear me approach.  
“

I would never have believed Brienne capable of it. She has always been so good, so dutiful.” Catelyn Stark said. “I suppose she had no mother, and I heard her father left her to run wild while they were living in that tiny hut. Maybe it is only natural that she should grow up so without any proper guidance.”

“I am not sure it was lack of guidance alone that drove her to such acts,” Ned Stark said doubtfully.

“Ned! You don’t mean…?”

“There was something wrong with that family,” Ned Stark said furtively. 

“Ned, Brienne was bewitched by a fine jaw line and a handsome smile. Nothing else,” Catelyn Stark said sternly. She lay a hand on his arm. “I am sure of it.”

“She still sinned,” Mister Stark insisted. “Perhaps I should inform the Septon?”

“And have him announce it to the whole congregation on Sunday?” Catelyn Stark asked in horror. “Ned, that is madness. Brienne’s reputation will be destroyed. She will be scorned in the streets, labelled a harlot,” my champion raged. “She does not deserve that. She is no petty whore, no conniving seductress. She is a lonely, grieving girl who was taken in by a charming man’s attentions. She did wrong, she was punished. Let that be-“

“Father!” a desperate voice cried shrilly. “Mother! Father! Come help!”

We spun round to see Sansa running towards us, her pretty face streaked with tears. “It’s Bran,” she gasped, doubled over and panting. “He-he was climbing and…and he… oh, please come and help.”

We were already running towards the ancient oak Bran loved to climb. Pushing Sansa aside, we saw Robb cradling Arya in one arm, hovering uselessly over Bran’s prone body.

The poor little boy was white and unmoving, his leg splayed out at a crooked angle that even at first glance showed it to be broken. 

Catelyn Stark let out a strangled sob and collapsed to her knees. Not daring to touch her precious son, she looked up and screamed at Robb.

“Go to town and fetch Maester Luwin. Now!” she shrieked. “Do it Robb! Just do it!”

Ned fell to his knees beside his wife and brought her into his arms, sobbing into her hair. I could see the rise and fall of Bran’s chest, but he did not wake, and we all feared to move him until the Maester arrived. Until then, all we could do was wait.

#

Poor Bran did not die, but he did not wake either. Catelyn Stark dedicated himself to his nursing, and the running of the household fell to upon Sansa’s shoulder. Only Robb and Ned Stark left the house, the rest of us remained cooped inside, waiting at a moment’s notice to be sent running to town to fetch the Maester. 

Two weeks passed before any of us ventured from the farm. Sansa, Arya and I were sent to market and not a day too late. The endless worry and our imprisonment inside the house had left Sansa wearied and fatigued, whilst Arya was one more day away from literally running wild. As it was, she ran and skipped ahead of us, burning away all that energy that had hissed and burned within her.  Screaming and singing at the top of her lungs, she only quietened when we reached Torrhen Village. I remained behind with Sansa, who was tired and dragging herself along like a limp rag doll.

“Isn’t it good to get out of the house?” I asked Sansa, hoping to bring a smile to her gaunt face.

Sansa shook her head, strands of red hair hanging limply round her face.

“I just want to lie down,” she yawned.

I rested my hand on her forehead, checking for a fever.

“Perhaps you should go back inside and rest. I’m sure Arya and I can manage,” I suggested, wrapping an arm round her shoulders.

Sansa smile gratefully but hook her head. “I cannot,” she said as we reached the town. “I am sure I just need some fresh air and to get away from the farm. It will lift my spirits.”

It certainly seemed to, just a bit. We were asked many a times about Bran and could only give the same answer. But the people were good and had long respected the Starks, so we were served quickly, and the baker even slipped Sansa and Arya some near stale cakes that would have otherwise been thrown out. We lingered in the village centre, watching the carts and shoppers go about their business, reluctant to return to the oppressing nerves and anxiety of the cottage. 

“Just to think,” Arya mused through a mouthful of crumbs, “That stale cake is a luxury for us, when rich folk in town feast on cake and biscuits daily. All smothered in fresh cream and strawberries and big boxes of sweetmeats!” 

Sansa sighed longingly. “If I was rich, I would do nothing but feast on little, dainty lemon cakes all day. I would sit on velvet chairs and wear gowns of silk and hang pearls around my neck. And then I would wear a cloak of white fur with diamonds twinkling at my throat, and ride about in a gold carriage drawn by four white horses to parties and plays.”

“You would,” Arya said scornfully. “If I was rich, I would buy a stable of Dothraki stallions and ride them faster than lighting!”

She stood up and brushed the crumbs from her skirt, pretending to be cantering around and neighing in a high, shrill voice.

I smiled at their chatter, those pictures they painted so sweet and impossible. “I would buy my own ship and travel all around the world,” I said at last, missing the sea more than ever. “I would see the Titan of Braavos and ruins of Valyria and even go to Southern Isles where it is as hot as the sun. I would spend my life at sea and fight pirates and water dragons!” I shook my head and laughed. “It’s silly, we shouldn’t think about such things. It is better to make the most of what we have.”

I indulged myself in such dreams once, and it only ended in grief. 

Sansa looked round anxiously, not bothering to scold her daughter for dragging attention upon us for her unseemly behaviour.

“Actually,” Sansa confessed, “I think I may know a way of making it true. For myself at least.”

I blinked in surprise. “How?” I asked doubtfully.

Patches of delicate pink spread over her cheeks. “Jaime Lannister,” she whispered in delight.

“What?” I demanded.

She reared back in horror. “I’m so sorry Brienne,” she said quickly, “but you told me it was nothing.”

“It was,” I said hastily. “But he is not a good man. He attacked your father.”

Sansa looked guiltily at her hands. “He _was_ grieving,” she said defensively. “People do awful things when they are grieving. You should have heard the things mother said to us when Rickon died.”

I swallowed a burning lump in my throat. “And you…you really think he might be interested?”

Sansa smiled in pleasure. “I really do,” she admitted. “I came across him when I was putting the goat out to pasture. He asked me how Bran was and was so charming, he even-“ she cut herself off with a little giggle, “He even cut a lock of my hair for safe keeping.”

I looked at Sansa, with her perfect beauty and gentle smile and ladylike ways. Yes, a man like Jaime Lannister could only want a girl like that for a wife. He would bed a brute like me for the novelty of it, but at the end of the day it was girls like Sansa he would wed and call his wife. 

How I hated him. And yes; I have to admit, I hated Sansa too. I cursed her. I cursed her for her charm and her beauty and I am afraid to say that my face showed it, for Sansa shrunk before my gaze, recoiling at the pure toxic loathing I could feel spilling from my pores like a poisonous frog. 

“It’s time to go!” I snapped, storming forward and grabbing Arya’s hand, towing her behind me and leaving Sansa in the dust. Not once did I look back, nor care to notice all the eyes of the village fixed on me, watching and thinking. 


	7. Kindling

I cursed Sansa for her beauty and someone listened. That night she was struck down with the pox. For several tortured, fevered nights she fretted in her sick bed, whilst poor Catelyn Stark divided her time between her two ailing babes.

Through some miracle, Sansa survived but her beautiful face was left scarred and pitted. Catelyn Stark refused to even allow her a mirror, for fear of Sansa’s reaction to her altered visage. Both were devastated. Goody Stark had always dreamed of good home and family for her dutiful daughter, while Sansa had dreamed of town and luxuries. And both dreamed of love. But the world was not so kind to ugly girls, and those in town who had once looked fondly on Sansa would now see only her marked face.

But, scarred she might have been, she did recover. Poor Bran still ailed, lost in his slumber. Arya was trapped in the house, Goody Stark refusing to let her leave her sight. She could not even go to the market, for pox had swept through the town and not a house was unaffected.

“Mama,” Arya pleaded three weeks after Sansa’s sickness, “Cannot I please go to town?”

“No sweetling,” Catelyn Stark said. “It is still too dangerous. The Pooles have the pox in their house as well and I heard poor little Beth Karstark was lost yesterday. Let Brienne go.”

Mister and Goodwife Starks’ had turned decidedly cold to me ever since two of their children took ill. I would see them looking at me and wondering why this stranger’s child was so hale and hearty when so many of their own had been struck down with sickness and injuries.

I was glad to be free from the house. But the village was more stifling if anything. Sickness was sweeping through, carrying along the lives of the young and old. Death upon death brought grief, which in turn brought anger.

 I was still an unknown to Torren Village, only ever a curiosity brought in to have her ugliness gawked at. The hideous daughter of a drunken heathen. The only person less savoury than me was Jaime Lannister, lurking away from everyone else and skulking around his house.

 And now misfortune had taken its hand to the Starks. Misfortune so great that Ned Stark had gone to see the Septon for guidance and broke down in tears before him. His troubles came pouring out, the death of his babe, the disfigurement of his daughter, the ailing of his son. And the wickedness of his ward. From that point on, everywhere I went gossip stopped and whispers followed. I went about my business as swiftly as possible, only lingering on the long stretch of empty road between town and farm.

I should have hurried to get back and return to my duties, but I so needed to be away from hostile eyes that by the time I returned, the sun had set, and the moon was poking miserably through the grey clouds.

It was so late I daresay even Ned and Robb Stark would have returned, and yet a single figure was lurking at the edge of the woods. From the height I took it to be Arya, wearing her brother’s clothes. I set down my basket and hurried over, meaning to call Arya back inside when she darted into the woods.

I followed her, my stride breaking into a run as she sprinted ahead. And yet even with my longs legs I could not seem to keep up. I desperately stormed after her, growing more and more panicked as Arya turned off the path and disappeared into the trees, not sparing a thought for wolves.

Deeper and deeper I went, crying her name and pleading for her to return as her tiny form grew lost amidst the branches and shadows.

“Arya!” I wept. _“Arya!”_

Finally, I came across a small, solitary figure standing in a clearing. The clouds parted ever so slightly, and I could just make out the face. But it was not Arya’s long, solemn features and black hair that greeted me. But instead, it was Bran’s ruddy curls and joyous grin.

“Bran?” I whispered, before a wolf leapt from the darkness and tackled me to my feet. Spittle flying in my face, its teeth dug into my leg and hot blood spurted out. I screamed, over and over as pain unlike I had ever known burned within me. I lingered between consciousness and slumber long enough to hear a gunshot and a whimper, and then there was nothing.

#

When I awoke it was morning, but the room was dim and dark, and I had to blink several times to see clearly. The walls were a dark red with heavy velvet curtains that were shut firmly across the windows. Only a thin ray of light was allowed through, gold dust dancing in the sun. The chamber was furnished with handsome wooden and velvet furniture and all sorts of fine ornaments, made from the daintiest china and glass were laden on every surface. There was more wealth and luxury cramped in that room than I had ever seen before in my life, and yet the whole room was heavy with dust and I coughed violently, tears in my eyes as I thoughtlessly tried to sit forward.

I had never been in that room before, but the blankets tucked firmly around me smelled so strongly of _him_ that there was only one place I could be.

“Careful now,” a gentle voice said, sitting behind me and pressing a glass of water to my mouth.

“Jaime?” I croaked, peering up at him. His handsome face was creased in concern, but he smiled at me.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, running his hand over my forehead.

I blinked in confusion. “The wolf?” I asked.

“Shot it.” He shrugged. “I was out hunting by our creek when I heard you scream.”

“But Bran?” I demanded, sitting up despite Jaime’s attempts to keep me lying down beneath my covers. “Where is he?”

“Isn’t he back at Winterfell Farm?” Jaime frowned. “I didn’t know he was even walking again.”

“I didn’t either, but I saw him. That is why I was in the woods. He ran out and wouldn’t come back when I called.”

“Brienne, there was no one else there. I didn’t see Bran or anyone. Or I saw was you wrestling with that damned wolf.” Jaime told me.

“I know what I saw,” I said through clenched teeth. But Jaime still looked at me as though I was mad.

“Please Jaime,” I pleaded, clutching his hand. “I know I saw him. Please. Please, go to Winterfell Farm and make sure he made it back.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” he said doubtfully, “Not yet. Let me wait until you have recovered a bit more.”

I shook my head. “You have to go now. If Bran is lost in the woods, then we can’t spare a moment.”

Jaime looked at, taking in the pallor of my sin and the beat of my pulse. Content that I would not relapse, he bid me to sleep and promised he would be back by the time I awoke.

And he was, waxen face and stricken eyes.

“Bran?” I demanded. “Is he lost?”

“Aye.” Jaime nodded. “The boy is lost.” He clutched my hand and sighed. “I’m so sorry Brienne.”

My heart sunk to the depths of my stomach. “Do they have any idea where he might be? Please don't tell me the wolves got to him?”

“No Brienne, the wolves did not get to him.” Jaime closed his eyes and swallowed. “He never left the house. He was in bed the entire time. Brienne, I don’t know what you saw in the woods, but the boy died last night.”


	8. Smoke Rises

The Starks wouldn’t let me back in their house after Bran’s death. Why would they welcome into their home a lustful, selfish girl who frolicked in the woods with Jaime Lannister as their son died? They thought my explanation of seeing Bran a wretched lie, and disgusting attempt of pardoning myself.

Jaime didn’t. He took my crazed words for the truth, and quietly agreed with me when I suggested that it was the boy’s spirit leaving his body, awake and playing once more. With no other explanation, we took our hopes for fact and put the unsettling matter to rest.

For the sake of my dubious reputation, Jaime brought a Septon and special license back with him when he went to fetch the Maester. I had nowhere else to go. I had no one to go to. Jaime was very probably the only friend I had left in the world. The thought of swearing a vow that would tie us together in the eyes of gods and men was sweeter to me than sugar.

 And so; far from the gaiety of a wedding before loved ones with bells ringing and flowers and ribbons on every surface, instead of the day even a girl such as I would dream of, I was wed from my sick bed by a Septon who glared at me as though I were a plague. The circus was complete when our witnesses turned out to be two drunkards Jaime had dragged from the streets after stuffing a handful of golden dragons into their pockets.

Actually, it turned into quite a merry evening, once the glaring Septon had left. Jaime plunged into his pockets once more to see me feasted as a bride should be. The two strangers he brought from the streets certainly enjoyed themselves, singing vigorously at the top of their warbling voices. They left me and Jaime with thanks for Jaime’s largesse and well-wishes for me, before stumbling away from the house with their pockets and bellies full. Despite being nothing like the wedding I may have dreamed of, it was a sweet memory that saw me through many a trying time.

My wounds slowly healed, and we began venturing out to the creek and to the town together. I would have liked to attended Bran Stark’s funeral, but we received a message from Ned Stark which explicitly said I wasn’t invited. Any hopes that the whispers about myself and Jaime would fade in the light of our marriage died on our first trip to town, when vicious eyes followed us with every step we took and several shop owners; such as the Pooles and Cassels, refused us service.

And far from the hostility easing, their loathing only grew with every trip to town, culminating in stones being thrown at me by a fuming Rickard Karstark, who had lost both his sons in the pox outbreak. He gathered a handful of stones and gravel while my back was turned, screamed ‘Witch!’ and hurled them at my head, drawing blood.

None but Jaime came to my aid, with more than one person nodding and hissing in approval. Both Jaime and I rather fancied pounding him to the ground where he stood, but good sense prevailed, and we hurried from town before any pyres could be built.

“We can’t go back there.” Jaime decided. “You least of all. We will have everything delivered.”

“We will have to leave,” I said. “We can’t spend the rest of our lives quaking in our boots. May we not join your brother in town?”

Jaime gave me a crooked smile. “Does town life appeal to you, my love?”

“More than it does being burned to death,” I snapped. “As for town, I have never been. I should like to decide for myself.”

“We will make you a truly cosmopolitan lady. We can put all those reading and writing lessons to good use.” Jaime promised. “I will set about selling the house, and once you are recovered well enough to make the journey, we shall leave.”

“I am well enough now,” I insisted. “We cannot dally here any longer. You heard them in the village. I would not be surprised if the marshals came for us tonight and dragged us from our beds.”

“Well, we don’t have to worry about that just yet. The marshals and Judge Tarly are in my pocket. But best we leave before the mob arrives at out door with pitchforks.” Jaime agreed. “We shall be gone within a week, I promise. We will leave this wretched village behind us, and then there will be nothing but open skies.”

But before reaching those open skies, I was stuck beneath wooden ceilings. Jaime insisted I stay in the house, even as he went out and sorted out the selling of the house. He did so quietly, so that he did not alert those who would come for us before we could make our escape. And so, the business took longer than predicted, and I suspect it was pure sentimentality for his family home that had Jaime seek to sell the house and see it taken care of that kept us from running in the night.

I grew irate, stuck in those four walls. The summer heat set in and discomfort like I had never known before gripped me. Two weeks had passed since we planned our leaving and although I thought myself to be so very old and worldly wise, I was still young and restless. Jaime had been feeding me stories of luxuries and splendours unlike those I had ever known. He told me of museums and mountains and castles and caves and the open sea stretching out to the Earth’s four corners. He promised me the world’s glory, but during those days I was forbidden a simple stroll in the woods. I wiled away my days packing Jaime’s things and loading them into his coach, ready to flee at the first chance.

When one night, two days before our leaving, Jaime informed me that he would be gone all day, I had enough. I waited until he was gone in the morning, and then set of by myself. My steps had not a limp and all my scars had faded. I felt as though I had taken a great gulp of ice water as I stepped from the oppressive heat of the house into the blessed shade of the forest.

Here is where I must admit I left the door unlocked. Jaime never gave me a key, but as no one ever came to call and we had no deliveries expected, I thought little of it. And I will admit, I had never intended to be out all day. After being stuck in those choking red rooms, the green and blue of the forest pulled me in and would not let go.

I returned to the house shortly before Jaime was due to join me. I set about lighting the fires and turned myself to packing away the last few of Jaime’s possessions left to be organised.

Beneath Jaime’s bed was a handsome wooden box, which I always took to be empty. One of many such objects bought for its looks than its function. And yet I found the box was not only unlocked, but full.

Inside were dolls. Wax dolls. Stretched out over a frame made from a wooden Star of the Seven. Six of them, their ugly sewn faces all smiling tauntingly up at me. Even I, ignorant of all such matters, knew what those dolls were for.


	9. A Furnace

By nature I was not superstitious. My father and I had no time for such things. Not for one moment did I allow myself to believe those dolls could truly be the toys of the devil. But I did know they were dangerous. And why would I need to fear the dark forces when our own strangers bade for our blood?

My mind turned to the door which had been unlocked all day, where any one person could have strolled in and placed them there. Half the village were convinced of our guilt, these poppets were the final nail in the coffin. The final faggot on our pyres.

I knew we had to leave that night, for any moment our accusers could be at the door. I waited desperately for Jaime to arrive so that we could flee, but before he did, I set about destroying the evidence.

Well, a fire was already lit. And so, one by one, I threw those wretched dolls onto the flames and watched them melt.

I was about to throw the final one, the blonde one, when a fist caught my wrist and stayed my hand.

“Brienne?” an aghast voice whispered, “What have you done?”

I turned to see Jaime watching me. So relieved was I to see him safely home, and not attacked on his journey back to me, that I ignored his words and stumbled into his arms.

Jaime caught me and hugged me back, clutching me too tightly against his chest. He kissed my hair and groaned.

I broke back, trembling in his grip.

“Someone broke into the house,” I said rapidly, “They left these dolls here. I think they mean to frame us. We need to leave. Now.”

“Brienne,” Jaime whispered in an agonised voice, “No one planted those dolls.”

I wrenched myself from his grip. “What?” I hissed.

Jaime stumbled back and collapsed into his armchair.

“They are mine. Or else, they were. I got the red hair from Sansa when I asked her about Bran, and the blonde hair from you when I dragged you from the lake.”

I felt my knees buckle, but I forced myself to remain standing, looking down on my ashen faced husband.

“Why?” I demanded.

“They were not to hurt anyone,” he said swiftly, “They were to protect them. And you.”

I stood before him, clutching the final doll, my doll, in my hands. “Explain,” I ordered.

Jaime sighed and stood, walking across the room and dislodged a loose floorboard. From there, he produced a seventh doll. This one had no hair nor face nor a Seven-Pointed Star frame but was instead wrapped in a white handkerchief that was stiff with brown blood.

“Ned Stark’s doll,” he explained. “I used the blood I drew from him when I attacked him in the streets. He helped murder my sister,” Jaime growled, his voice growing hard and unapologetic. “I would see justice done. And if the law and the church would not assist me, then very well, I thought, I will bloody use the devil’s tricks!”

He sighed and sunk once more back into his seat. “I made this doll and I cursed him, his blood and his house. But nothing happened. Not to Ned Stark at least.” Jaime looked up at me, as lost and frightened as a little boy.

“And then the baby died. I told myself it was nothing, that babies die in the cradle all the time. But I could not stop thinking of that tiny coffin I had seen be born through the streets. I wanted Ned Stark punished, but not his family. Not his children.

“You entered into his house and so I had to protect you. Coming across you in that creek, I took my chance and stole your hair. But the Starks were harder. Impossible in fact. So much so that I gave up and told myself that Rickon Stark’s death was a sad but not improbable occurrence. And I admit, you distracted me. From my dolls, from my grief. It was only when young Bran Stark was crippled that I realised I could take no chances and I took a lock of Sansa Stark’s hair. It was too late for Bran Stark-“

“And Sansa,” I added. “She still caught the pox.”

“And survived,” Jaime insisted, “She survived.”

He stared at the dolls as they melted away amidst the flames. “I don’t know what will happen now.” He shook his head, shot to his feet and trembled before me. “Brienne, I don’t know what you have done.”

Here, my legs finally gave out and I would have fallen like a maiden had Jaime not leapt forward and caught me.

I pushed him off me and ran to the window, where I could see the Stark house. I watched frantically, praying to the Seven that all would be well. And at first, it seemed it was. But then I saw it. Smoke. Silver and more beautiful than I had ever seen before. The blood drained from my face, and Jaime said I looked near to fainting, but all I remember was a cold, hard determination and complete certainty of what had to be done.

“Fire,” I said, softly at first and then once more, loudly, “Fire! Jaime, we have to help them!”

Jaime and I streaked outdoors and hauled ourselves onto his horses, pushing them gallop madly down the hill and steering them wildly through the trees, branches whipping out at us and stinging our faces.

Once we reached Winterfell Farm, the entire house was ablaze. Arya Stark was lugging a bucket of water form the woods, Robb Stark lying limp on the ground.

She looked up at us and gulped, flying into my arms.

“The fire started in mother and father’s room. Robb jumped out of the window with me in his arms. He hit his head but he’s breathing and has spoken to me a bit. Please, Mother and Father and Sansa…they’re still in there.”

I didn’t listen to another word. Instead I took the bucket and stormed inside, Jaime beside me. The heat blazed out at us, burning our eyes and forcing us to throw up our arms in defence. From above the crackle and hiss and roar of the flames, we heard the desperate screams of the family. We charged up the stairs, near falling through the floorboards. There we found Ned and Catelyn Stark, trying and failing to pull their lifeless daughter safely down the stairs and from the flames.

I threw the bucket of water over the flames and dampened them just enough to for the three to break through.

“Come on!” I screamed, reaching out and taking Sansa from her exhausted, gasping parents. I sprinted down the collapsing stairs with Sansa in my arms as Jaime hooked Ned and Catelyn’s Stark arms over his shoulders, dragging them along with him. There was a moment where I thought I saw Jaime’s grip on Ned Stark slip and falter, but if it did, it must had tightened once more for Ned Stark remained firm in Jaime’s grasp. The flames licking at out heels, we blindly stumbled our way from the burning house and miraculously out into the open air.

We collapsed to the ground as one, gasping and choking for air. Arya flew into her sobbing mother’s arms and buried her head in her neck, clinging like a baby monkey. Ned took Sansa from me, cradling her gently as she stirred awake, while Jaime helped Robb to his feet and wobble over to his weeping family.

Jaime and I watched them, blindly reaching for each other’s hands.

“Thank you,” Catelyn Stark breathed. “Thank you.”

“Give your thanks to Brienne,” Jaime said gruffly, “Not to me. Truly, don’t.”

The family turned their heads from us, comforting themselves in their family’s love as their home burned behind them. Jaime and I sank to the floor, allowing ourselves to rest against each other and breathe in the blissful night air. But for all I could have lingered in Jaime’s arms forever, we soon heard the pounding of hooves and the cries of ‘fire!’

“You must leave,” Catelyn said swiftly, jumping to her feet. “If they were to see you here-“ “They would be throwing us into the flames instead of pulling us out?” I guessed. I grabbed Jaime’s hand and pulled him to his feet.

“Go now,” Catelyn ordered. “We will keep them here and tell them what you have done for us if they turn ugly thoughts towards you and think to blame you for these events. But best if you were to run before you give them a chance.” “We’ve got our horses.” Jaime nodded. “We will make for town.” He stepped forward and placed a hand on her arm. “Next to my house is a carriage of my things. Ornaments mostly. You could get a pretty price for them. I don’t need them. But I suspect.” He looked ruefully at their burning home, “That you do. Take what you want.”

I exchanged brief hugs with the Stark girls, and offered my best wishes to the others, only for Catelyn to step forward and kiss me on the cheek.

“Thank you,” she repeated, “And I am sorry.”

“Don’t,” I whispered, kissing her back.

And then we were away.

Jaime and I rode until sunlight.

That was so many years ago now, and such a short time in my life. I should not still dwell on it, but I do. Since then Jaime and I have seen so many things, all the glories of the world as he promised me when I was so young. We never did settle, but we name our address as his brother’s townhouse.

It was a new world for me, stepping out in the streets of King’s Landing. It was so different, so alien from that tiny, superstitious town of Torrhen Village, I wonder how Jaime did not go mad flitting between the two.

We rested a while with his brother, Tyrion. I feared that the company he kept would mock me but being a dwarf, he scorned polite society in favour of fellow misfits.  Sophisticated misfits, certainly. Actresses and actors and painters and poets. They looked upon my dressing in the fine velvet coats and linen breeches Jaime brought me with amused fondness, and through them I began to learn of the world and all its wonders. But neither Jaime nor I were content with that, and soon we set about seeing each and every one. I have walked on every known continent and swam in every sea, with Jaime cheering me on and calling me his Selkie.

But despite of all the beauties I have seen and the people I have met, I cannot stop thinking of that tiny village and the Starks of Winterfell Farm.

I wonder if Ned and Catelyn rebuilt their home. If Robb Stark found his own family, perhaps with that pretty Jeyne girl who cleaned for Maester Luwin? I picture Sansa, scarred and serene, gracing a ballroom and finally dressed in her silk gown and nibbling daintily on her lemon cakes. I see Arya, thundering around on her horses that run like lightning.

I do not know. I hope it is true. But then, I am not sure what is true and what is not when I think of those short-lived days in Torrhen Village. It all seems so fantastical. Those dolls, did they really do anything? Did my laughing, loving husband truly make deals with the devil? Did I really bring a house to its knees and set it alight?

I have recounted these events as best as I remember them, but as I said, it was so long ago. I am certain of nothing about that time. All I can provide is a few patched together memories. The story of a story.


End file.
